


The Boy

by karrieblue



Category: Reign (TV)
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-12-10
Updated: 2014-12-10
Packaged: 2018-02-28 21:11:02
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,585
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2747222
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/karrieblue/pseuds/karrieblue
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>This was intended to be a sequel to "The Girl," chronicling Francis's life from the point of Mary's departure up to her return. It's not finished, and I doubt it ever will be now that the fandom is in shambles, so I'm submitting it as is. (Note: The character of Alain Janvier was intended to be the blacksmith who taught Francis to make swords. I never got that far. Sorry.)</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Boy

There were nights when you woke up knowing that you had dreamt of her. You would lie there for a few moments, watching as the embers of the fire cast eerie, flickering shadows upon the canopy above your bed, and try to call her back to you. Always the image of her face, seemingly so clear only moments before, would waver and blur in your mind, like a reflection in a rippling pool of water.

You had never believed in ghosts, but you were haunted just the same. She no longer skipped down the palace hallways, no longer waited for you in the schoolroom, no longer chased after you down the garden paths. Yet still she lingered, drifting through the fog of your mind like a phantom.

A girl. A ghost-girl with dark hair that streamed in the wind, forever just beyond his reach.

Would you have known her then, if you saw her? Somehow, you felt certain that you would. The moon had waxed and it had waned, the months had slipped by like pearls off a string, and it did not matter. It did not matter that the only time you could picture her clearly was when she was just the memory of someone you once knew in a dream. You would know her. You were sure of it. You would know her anywhere.

You had so looked forward to that first Christmas after she left for the convent. The castle was always abuzz with anticipation in the days and weeks leading up to the holy day, and you and your sister Elisabeth had watched all the preparations with keen, bright eyes. Servants bustled back and forth as they prepared rooms for all the nobles returning from their chateaux—their long absences having been necessitated by the supervision of the harvest—and the fires of the kitchens had burned round the clock as the cooks worked feverishly to churn out enough sweet buns, pastries, and mince pies to last through the festivities. No matter where you roamed throughout the castle, the atmosphere was heavy with a sense of expectation that was nearly palpable.

One morning, a day or two before the celebrations were slated to begin, you were dismissed an hour early by your Latin tutor and had found yourself hurrying through the corridors toward her chambers, just as you had done countless times in the past. The first wave of guests were expected to arrive that afternoon, and you had been eager to see how the girl's rooms were being readied for her return.

The moment you burst through the heavy wooden door that led to her presence chamber, however, you realized that you had been mistaken. The room was practically bare, the air stale. Dust motes floated in the shafts of light that leaked through the room's closed-up windows, and it was obvious that no living thing had crossed over its threshold in quite some time. With the growing sense that this had been an exercise in futility, you continued on into her bed chamber, only to discover more of the same. You could see that it had been months since anyone had entered her rooms, although one of the bookcases which she had left behind lay inexplicably toppled on its side, its contents spilled into a pile on the bare floor. You had no idea how it had happened, but with some effort you were able to set it right it once more. You quickly set about replacing the books in its shelves, pausing occasionally to thumb through the pages of any that sparked your interest, and this is how your mother had found you three quarters of an hour later.

" _There_ you are. What are you doing, sweetheart?"

The sound of her voice had startled you and made you jump, sending the volume of Plutarch's  _Parallel Lives_  plummeting from your hands and onto the top of your foot with a dull  _thud_.

"Your nurse and I have been looking for you everywhere." Her tone was both concerned and wary, and as she had stepped through the doorway her eyes had swept the length of the room as if she half-expected to find you in the company of someone else. "What are you doing up here?"

"I came to see if they were finished preparing her rooms," you explained sheepishly, bending down to retrieve the fallen book in an effort to conceal the hot, self-conscious flush that had no doubt reddened your cheeks. "But they haven't even begun."

You saw the flash of surprise on her face, which was a rare thing indeed, as there was precious little in the world that could catch Catherine de Medici off her guard. It was gone almost immediately, however, and her expression had once again been neutral, but guarded. "Finished preparing her rooms?" she echoed, giving you a brittle smile. "Who told you that her rooms were to be readied?"

"Well…no one. But she cannot very well stay in them the way they are now, can she?"

" _Stay_?"

You had felt a twinge of apprehension then, as you stood frozen in her pitying, yet slightly amused gaze, and you attempted to cover it with a nervous laugh. "When she comes back. For the yuletide celebrations."

Your mother had come to a stop before you, then reached down to smooth a golden tendril of hair back from your temple. Her touch, as always, had been cool and dry against your skin. Then she had sighed deeply and said, albeit very kindly, "She won't be returning for Christmas. Not this year, nor the next. She won't be returning for a very long while."

You had not understood. "But…I heard Father say that the Duke and Duchess of Guise would be arriving tomorrow."

Your mother had clucked her tongue in annoyance. "Pretentious sycophants. Of course they are."

"And her uncle, the cardinal, has been here all week."

"Yes."

You waited for her to say something more, to no avail. Frustrated, you plunged on. "If her family is  _here_ , then where will  _she_  be?"

"Why, she will be at the convent," the queen had responded patiently. "Of course."

You had been horrified. "The  _convent_?" A Christmastide spent in such a place would no doubt be a grave affair, the entirety of the twelve days being spent in somber reflection. No Réveillon. No Fête des Saints Innocents or boy bishop. No galette des Rois or king-for-a-day. The merriment and gaiety that marked the season and made it one of the girl's favorite times of the year—she would miss it. She would miss all of it.

"Where else would she be?"

"She should  _be_  with—" You had bitten off the statement before it could be finished, though that did not stop your mother from arching an eyebrow at you in a way that made you believe that she knew exactly what you had been going to say.

_Us. She should be here with us_ … _and me._

"Her family," you finished lamely. "She should be with her family."

Your mother had smiled at you then in that amused, proud way she always did whenever you wore your heart on your sleeve—which, according to your father, was far too often. "And she will be, darling. I've heard that her grandmother, the dowager duchess, will be visiting her and staying through the New Year. Your little queen shan't be lonely."

_She is not my queen_ , you thought mutinously. You were not sure  _what_  she was, in fact, but you stared at the toe of your shoe and said nothing.

Sensing that you remained unconvinced, your mother had crouched down until her hazel-rimmed green eyes were level with your own. "You have such a kind heart," she murmured, and her eyes crinkled at the corners as she studied you fondly. "But you must trust that there is no need to worry yourself." Her hands reached out to cup your thin shoulders, squeezing gently. Reassuringly. "She is being well cared for. Your father has worked out a system of discreet correspondence with the prioress, who has had nothing but positive news to share. He has been told that she loves helping tend the animals, and that there are other girls her age living there—girls whose company she enjoys. In fact, according to the prioress, there is no reason to believe that the Scottish queen is anything other than happy."

_Happy_. That word should have brought you a measure of comfort. And it did, certainly. But it also brought with it a sting. You did not wish for her to be miserable—of course you did not wish that. It was just a little humiliating to think that while you had been anxiously thinking about her return, she may have been perfectly content where she was, not thinking of you at all.

"Come," your mother had said, once again standing up straight and offering you her outstretched hand. "Let us see if the pastry chef has anything particularly sweet and delicious prepared. Later, if you like, you can ask your father if you may send her a letter." She had then led you back into the corridor and closed the door to the girl's rooms behind her, and you did not step inside them again for a long time.

You never asked your father if you could write to the girl. It was a practical decision for the most part, as you knew that the necessity of keeping her whereabouts secret meant that communication should be limited only to that which was irrefutably essential. Yet it was also the dread of bringing up her name in front of your father that had kept you silent. Since that morning when you had awoken to find her gone, you had made a point of mentioning her as little as possible in the king's presence, and after that first Christmas without her, you made a point of rarely mentioning the girl at  _all_. You had tucked her into the back recesses of your mind, and whenever anyone inquired about your engagement, you let your father do the answering, or else you gave an appropriately perfunctory response that referenced the Auld Alliance, and often tossed in a vague sentiment such as  _If it all goes according to plan_ for good measure. Your father didn't appreciate your lukewarm candor, would rather you have responded with glib confidence, even as the he repeatedly made it clear that the only certainty you could count on was that there  _was_  no certainty.

One afternoon, annoyed by the ambivalence you had displayed during an audience with the Bishop of Rodez, your father had turned to you and drawled, "When someone asks about your betrothal to the queen of Scotland and your only response is 'we shall see,' you give the idea that our alliance is not sound."

Your retort was brief, waspish. "Our alliance with Scotland  _isn't_ sound."

The king had sighed heavily. "You have so much to learn."

"Does that mean there have been some new developments?"

"It  _means_ that as long as you are officially engaged to the queen of Scotland, you will speak of your marriage as if it were a certainty, and not merely a topic of conjecture."

You had stared at him, this king whom you so admired, this father you so feared. "So you would prefer that I lie to a bishop." It was not a question, yet your words had been tinged with uncertainty.

"I would preferit if you would start thinking like a  _king_ ," your father growled. "Do you know what it means to rule? Well, allow me enlighten you. To rule is to pull off the greatest balancing act in Creation. Nothing more. You feel as if I'm telling you to lie. _I_ believe I am telling you to do what you must to maintain balance. Balance: that is the key. Only when he has weighed all the costs and benefits does a king act. Decisively. Swiftly. Until then, he must be all things to all people, which means that until I tell you otherwise, you are the future consort of Scotland. Do I make myself clear, o  _king-in-waiting_?"

"As always." You had clenched your jaw, and said nothing more.

You had once promised the girl that you would not allow them to send her away, and still they had done it. What a painful lesson that had been on the consequences of making promises that you couldn't keep. And yet they expected you to keep making them.  _He_  expected you to keep making them.

So you kept making them.

Of course, as the time since you had seen her last stretched from months into years, you began to feel that your reluctance to participate in the political charade stemmed not from any feelings or loyalty to  _her_ , even though the thought of the girl so far away, unaware of the instability of the alliance, unable to fight for it—or for herself—from the depths of the convent in which they had buried her, made your face hot and your fingers itch. No. You simply could not see the logic in forging an alliance if no one was quite decided on whether or not they intended to honor it.

Yet the mercurial nature of alliances was not the only royal lesson you had need of learning.

When you had reached the age of twelve, your father decided that it was time to introduce the future king to his subjects. You began to join the king on his travels, and soon came to know the great cities and towns of your kingdom, as well as the unbroken countryside whose beauty filled you with awe and pride. You quickly discovered that wherever the royal procession went, the crowds came out to greet it in droves. Sometimes there would be speeches or short plays in the king's honor, while on other occasions the entire entourage would be delighted as minstrels and troubadours showcased their talents for the pleasure of the crown. For the first time, you began to see people from every walk of life—young, old, rich, poor, healthy, and infirm. People of every shape and size, all shouting, all reaching, all crying out, "Long live the king!"

It was so overwhelming.

A constant parade of people, all wanting to be near you, to touch your cloak, to breathe your air. Boys your own age bowed solemnly before you, and mothers with babes-in-arms pushed forward so that you might kiss the brows of sleeping infants. Family members produced pieces of cloth or other talisman and begged you to bestow your blessing upon them, so that they might then be taken back to loved ones too weak to walk, too sick to get out of bed, and work miracles through your words.

And everywhere, everywhere, girls of every sort curtsied and coquetted at you with batting eyes.

You had quickly learned that these progresses were not all pomp and entertainment. You were, after all, the crown prince of France, and as such found yourself to be part of a traveling royal audience. There were long hours of petitions to hear, lands to oversee, and goods to inspect. You watched your father and his royal councilors closely, listened with attentive ears to every comment and question.

_How long has that field lain fallow?_

_What was the cause for the mill's decrease in production this year?_

_Are the terms in writing?_

You began to discern when someone was telling the truth, and took note of the ways in which your father drew it out of those who weren't.

There was so,  _so_ much to learn.

You had always known that the lifestyle afforded to your family was different from most.  _Luxurious_ , as it was often described. But that had never really meant anything to you until you saw how others—your own people—lived. There were whole families crammed into tiny, one-room thatch cottages, people who shared sleeping quarters with their livestock, men and women with hollow cheeks who begged for crusts of bread, and children in faded, tattered clothing who ran alongside the royal caravan in bare feet. There was so much need, all around. So much.

As you and your father had distributed alms outside the cathedral at Chartes one blustery autumn day, the king had leaned close to you and whispered, "When you are on the throne, it is these people whom you must consider above all others, for they are the first and most grievously wounded by any misfortunes that befall our kingdom. Do you understand?"

Just then, a dirty young child with a mop of dark hair had tugged on your cloak and held out his hand. But for the haunted gleam in his eyes and the greyish pallor of his face, the child looked very much like the your younger brother Charlie, and the realization made your heart wrench painfully, causing you to fumble a bit with the drawstring pouch of coins before you finally managed to produce one. You pressed it carefully into the child's palm, where the gleaming gold looked out of place against the grimy skin.

The poor waif had stared at it for a moment with shining eyes before closing his fingers over it protectively, as if it were the most precious of jewels. "Bless you, your Grace," he had said breathlessly. "God bless you."

After watching him scamper off on bare, dirty feet, it had taken you a moment to find your voice again. "I can see that, father," you assured the king, "and I do understand."

Although the queen refused to allow you to be kept away from the palace for too very long, she also knew how important it was for a future king to familiarize himself the rivers and roads of his country. She often joined the royal procession when the journeys were relatively short, and the sight of her silver-grey palfrey ambling alongside of you became a familiar one. Other times it was Diane de Poitiers, your father's favorite mistress, who accompanied you, and on cloudless days the sunlight glittering off the jewels in her hair as she rode ahead alongside your father could be nearly blinding.

Most awkward of all were the times when both women decided to undertake the journey, for on those occasions the queen stared daggers at everyone and spoke in tones of chipped ice, all the while radiating a constant, dignified rage that never failed to tie your stomach in knots and make your head ache.

"Look at them, acting as if he's the last bit of custard in the dish and they're starving," your half-brother, Sebastian, had once contemptuously observed as he drew up beside you on a russet-colored charger.

"Meanwhile we've all had enough of it to sicken ourselves," you had grumbled, a response which had elicited a sympathetic chuckle from your older sibling. Sebastian—or Bash, as he was called—was the king's eldest child and Diane's only son. He had been nearly a man by then, as the young ladies at court were quickly starting to notice. Bash exuded all the confidence of his father and mystery of his mother, and while he was not the king's heir, he was markedly the favorite—a state of affairs which might have troubled you a great deal more if either of your temperaments had been different. But because you looked up to Bash and loved him as much as your other, legitimate siblings, Bash did not resent your future title. And because Bash took such great pains to fill in the gaps left by your father's indifference—sparring and hunting with you, showing you how to trail quarry within the forest, teaching you to play cards—you did not bear a grudge toward the king's favorite son.

It was an unusual bond, that was for certain, but one for which you were grateful. At court, you could always count on Bash to sneak away with you whenever the tension forever crackling in the atmosphere became too much to bear, or divert you whenever your responsibilities weighed too heavily upon your slender shoulders. Away from court, you depended on your older brother's knowledge of the outside world, for that was something with which you yourself had all-too little experience.

You were beginning to discover that it was an entirely different world beyond the palace's well-guarded walls. Far beyond the insular court, you witnessed dangers you had never known existed, and soon realized that your family was not universally loved throughout France. More than once, you watched as the royal guard wrestled to the ground an angry subject hell-bent on charging the king. These would-be assassins were often madmen and zealots, and each had his own reason for wanting to rid the country of Henry Valois: the war with Italy, the treatment of the Protestants, the rising costs of food. Your father always took such instances in stride, but they frightened your mother and made you uneasy. Even as time passed and the tailors were called upon to lengthen the hem of your trousers with almost comical frequency, you remained slight and thin, and the jostling crowds and pressing guards always seemed just on the verge of trampling you underfoot.

Once, in Bonneval—a small city situated on the lovely banks of the Loir River—a throng of protesters had ambushed the royal procession in such numbers that the guards were temporarily overwhelmed. The ensuing melee had scattered the accompanying courtiers and sent the horses into a panic, and before you quite knew what was happening, you had been thrown from your mount and forced to scramble frantically to avoid the danger of stampeding hooves. Elisabeth, who had been ambling along behind you, was also knocked from her sidesaddle perch, and after you pulled her to safety, the two of you had huddled under your traveling cloak and flattened yourselves against the stone wall of a nearby blacksmith's shop, waiting for the chaos to subside.

A fine rain had begun to fall by the time the proprietor of the smith, a man named Alain Janvier, discovered the two wet, shivering children outside his door. Janvier was large, red-cheeked and beefy, and yet in spite of his intimidating exterior, you and your sister had not hesitated to take him up on his offer of refuge. Neither of you had ever had cause to enter a blacksmith's shop before, but once inside you found that it looked much the way you had always imagined. The entire space centered around the forge, which emanated an incredible and—in your rain-dampened state—welcome amount of heat. Close to it stood a well-worn anvil, and various tools and implements hung neatly along the wall and from the overhead beams.

While Janvier offered Elisabeth a slice of bread and small hunk of cheese, your eyes had become riveted by a stack of gleaming blades on display near the far corner. You could not help but step forward to examine them more closely, and even your unpracticed gaze could see that their craftsmanship was excellent. "You make swords as well?"

The fear of your narrow escape had roughened your voice to brusqueness, and the question came out rather abruptly. You flushed, fearing you had sounded rude, but Janvier only chuckled good-naturedly and said, "I make a bit of everything."

"These are very fine blades."

"Thank you, your Highness."

At his use of your title, your eyes had flashed to you sister, who hastily swallowed her mouthful of bread and cheese. "You know who we are?" she asked, surprised.

"What with the news of the royal party passing through, and those fine clothes you're wearing—the likes of which I've never seen before, by the way—it wasn't too difficult to figure out," Janvier responded cheerfully. He had then tilted his head toward you and squinted thoughtfully. "Though I must say that the dauphin here is a bit taller than I would have expected."

You had felt the tops of your ears go hot as Elisabeth tried and failed to suppress a fit of giggles at your expense. "Why does everyone  _say_  that?" you had grumbled under your breath, turning your back to them and once again admiring the display of swords.

"People think he's frail, but he's really not. It's just that he's so thin," you heard Elisabeth whisper, sotto voce, as if being unable to see her prevented you from hearing her conspiratorial gossiping.

"Is that so?" Janvier's voice was full of amused interest.

"Our father used to tease him and say that he was hollow-boned, like a bird—"

You gritted your teeth. "Elisabeth."

"—and wager that his wrist would snap like a twig if one grabbed it too hard—"

" _Elisabeth_."

"—but he's grown ever so much this past year that even Father—"

"Elisabeth, I am standing  _right here_." You had whipped around to glare at her. "Whatever my other shortcomings, believe me, I can hear perfectly well!"

Janvier gave Elisabeth a kind smile, then turned his eyes to you. "It's all right, your Highness. All great men were young once, and small. No doubt many of them had sisters to let them know it, as well."

When the reassembled guard arrived half an hour later, you and your sister were sipping warm pots of ale while avidly watching Janvier hammer a set of horseshoes into shape.

Your mother, of course, had been dramatic. "Oh, thank God!" she had cried, barreling her way through the assembled crowd. Once she was within arms' reach, she grabbed for you and Elisabeth with a grip that hurt. "I saw you both go down off your horses and feared you had been stomped to pieces!"

"We are all right," Elisabeth insisted. "He pulled me out of the way as soon as I fell, and once we were away from the danger, Monsieur Janvier here took us in." She smiled up your mother, and you could see that to your sheltered sister, the entire ordeal had been a rare taste of adventure. And there had been something about her just then—the ruddy glow of her cheeks, the excited gleam in her eye, her masses of dark, tumbled-down hair—that had suddenly put you in mind of another girl. A girl you had no seen in years.

A girl you wondered if you would ever see again.

As a mark of their gratitude, your parents offered the blacksmith a position at the palace, which he heartily accepted.

Against your mother's wishes, you continued on with your father to the Chateau d'Anet, the palatial estate that he had constructed as a gift to Diane. Your mother and Elisabeth had hastily decamped south to Blois, a journey you normally would have made together. But it had been weeks since you had last seen Bash, and after the incident at Bonneval, the thought of your mother hovering over you for one more moment was simply unbearable.

The king was making the journey to Anet to oversee the final installation of the immense clock Diane had commissioned for the chateau's magnificent portal gates. It was rather ironic, considering your father's strange and inexplicable distaste for timepieces, but this one was designed especially by Philibert de L'Orme, the estate's brilliant architect, and it was rumored that it would be a marvel to behold. In honor of its completion, Diane had arranged for a commemorative fête to be held in the gardens, which was to culminate with the first chiming of the bells at midnight.

Whatever your other issues with her may have been, you had to give Diane credit for one thing: she had a natural instinct for hosting in grand style. On the day of the celebration, tents of black-and-white striped silk were set up on the lawns by the gate, and by early evening, the guests had begun to arrive. They consisted mostly of courtiers from your father's and Diane's inner circle—people you did not know—but that did not prevent them from seeking you out among the brightly lit torches, silk-swathed tables, and footmen carrying trays of candied fruits. Such a manner of currying favor with a future king was not at all unusual, but your father had been none-too-pleased to see his cronies swarming around you. He knew, as you did, that they were already thinking beyond him and laying the groundwork for their continued favored status under your rule. As the night wore on, you watched as his expression had continued to darken, a thundercloud threatening to erupt.

The king's mood was no better by the time the trumpet fanfare signaled that the hour of revelation was nigh. "I see no reason why I should be here," he had huffed, only grudgingly following suit as everyone turned and directed their eyes upward toward the object above the portal's entryway, hidden from sight by a heavy cloth covering.

"It was your money that paid for the commission," Diane reminded him through gritted teeth, though outwardly her beaming smile had never slipped. "One might think you would want to see what such an obscene expenditure had wrought."

"A nuisance, no doubt," your father muttered. "Just like every other clock in Creation."

"What is it about them that bothers you so?" she asked mildly.

"Besides the incessant ticking?"

At the signal of the estate's chamberlain, the drapery shrouding the clock was pulled away with a dramatic flourish. The face was smaller than you had imagined, but above it, peering down upon the onlookers, was the figure of an enormous bronze stag. Suitably impressed, the guests broke into a smattering of applause, from which your father—of course—abstained. Diane rewarded him with a withering look.

"Oh, all right," your father had sighed. "It is not just the sound of a clock that irritates me—though God knows that would be reason enough—it is what it  _means_. Every second, every tick, is a reminder that something has been lost."

Bash, who had spent the majority of the evening conversing quite closely with a lovely red-haired girl, caught the end of your father's statement as he approached with a wine goblet in hand. "Lost?" he echoed, sidling up next to you with a good-humored smirk. "Father, when have you ever  _lost_?"

There had been no mirth in the king's eyes. "We are all at the mercy of Fortune's wheel, son," he responded grimly, "and I have been dealt my losses like any other man. Everyone loses. Everyone wins. The best one can hope for is balance."

"I would rather hope for good wine and women, I think," Bash retorted. Diane had narrowed her eyes at him.

The crowd had fallen quiet in anticipation of the chiming of the hour. Atop the gate, you watched as a couple of shadowy figures moved back and forth, positioning the hands of the clock into place. In the silence you could hear the faint whirring of gears grinding into motion, the sound of a great mechanical heart stirring to life.

The pair of bronze hounds flanking the stag sprang forward in a sudden burst. Diane was forever emphasizing her symbolic connection to the immortal Diana, goddess of the moon and the hunt, and the clock was meant to further cement that image in the minds of all whom she welcomed to the estate. The hounds leapt toward their quarry, which struck the hour with its hoof before turning to flee.

As the last reverberation of the twelfth chime had been swallowed by the cool night air, the guests had burst into a round of utterly delighted applause.

Diane acknowledged the reaction with a magnanimous bow of her head before treating your father to a small, self-satisfied smile. "It seems as if your feelings are out of step with those of your people, darling. Not for the first time, nor for the last, I am sure."

Your father had stepped closer to you and placed a hand upon your shoulder. "Bash, Diane…They do not understand," he said softly. "They are not burdened with legacy. Whatever they accomplish in life, or whatever they fail to accomplish…history will not judge them harshly. It is not the same for us. It will show us no mercy."

You met his eyes, which were dark and snapped fire, and so unlike the soft cerulean of your own. "Because we are kings," you added simply.

"Yes. Because we are kings." His smile was cryptic, as if he were preparing to share a private joke. "And do you know the difference between a remembered and beloved king, and a forgotten one?"

"No."

" _Time_. Son, we are bound by time. We will be frozen in it. In four hundred years, whether scholars speak of me with praise or disdain depends entirely on the one commodity I cannot purchase, nor store, nor produce. You ask why I do not like clocks? Well, there you have it. They do nothing but remind me that I am in a race against an opponent who has already been declared the victor." He sighed. "You were only three years old when I was crowned. Do you remember it?"

You had shaken your head. "Only that it was hot, and I was hungry, and that mother almost fainted."

"That's right. It was stifling inside the cathedral, and Claude was born that fall. I had forgotten that it was only you and Elisabeth at the time."


End file.
